Clay Bennett leans against the dented rear fender of his 1979 Ford F-150, cold IPA sweating through the paper coozie in his calloused hand, and pretends he’s not avoiding the pack of retirees by the grill who’ve tried to set him up with every single widow within a three-block radius since he moved in last spring. At 58, 32 years as a US Forest Service ranger patrolling the White River National Forest left him with a bad left knee, a scar across his right cheek from a run-in with a spooked moose, and a stubborn, self-imposed seven-year ban on anything that even resembles romantic connection, since his wife Susan died of breast cancer. The only reason he’s at the block party at all is his granddaughter Lila begged him to come for the bounce house and ring toss, and he’s never been able to say no to that kid.
The sun hangs low enough to gild the tops of the maple trees, the air thick with the smell of charred burgers and citronella candles, when he sees her trip over a coiled garden hose half-buried in the grass. Maren, 54, his neighbor Jake’s ex-wife, who moved back into the blue bungalow two doors down three months prior, holds a tray of peach cobbler out in front of her like a life raft. He moves before he thinks, catches the edge of the ceramic tray before it can face-plant into the lawn, his palm brushing hers for half a second. Her skin is warm, rough at the fingertips, like she works with her hands, and the cinnamon-sweet smell of the cobbler hits him so hard he almost forgets to let go of the tray. She laughs, low and throaty, not the high, tinkling laugh the other women at the party use when they’re flirting with the guys by the grill, and swipes at a smudge of gray clay under her left eye with the back of her wrist. “You just saved me from getting roasted by every mom on the block for forgetting the good dessert,” she says, and holds his gaze, no flinching, no looking away, like she’s not used to people hiding from her.
Clay’s throat tightens, and he yanks his hand back like he’s been burned. He remembers Jake cornering him in the driveway a week prior, beer breath sharp enough to cut glass, warning him off Maren. “She’s trouble, man,” Jake had said, sneering. “Left me for a 26-year-old ski bum, now she’s just going around chewing up any guy dumb enough to fall for her act.” Clay had nodded, bought it, because Jake was the first guy who’d invited him over for a football game when he moved in, and he’d assumed you don’t lie about that kind of stuff. He mumbles a half-hearted “no problem” and turns to walk back to his truck, already kicking himself for getting within 10 feet of her.
He’s hiding in the shade on the side of his porch 20 minutes later, picking at a bag of potato chips and watching Lila scream as she bounces 10 feet in the air on the bounce house, when a shadow falls over him. Maren is holding two bowls, each heaped with cobbler and a melting scoop of vanilla ice cream, and she sits down on the porch step next to him without asking, her knee brushing his by less than an inch. “Figured you earned a reward for playing hero,” she says, and passes him one of the bowls, her wrist grazing his forearm this time, and he doesn’t pull away. The ice cream is cold on his tongue, the peaches tart and sweet, and he finds himself looking at the silver streaks woven through her dark braid, the faint crinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiles, instead of staring at his boots like he usually does when he talks to people he doesn’t know.
She teases him about the rust spot on the truck bed, says she helped her dad restore the exact same model when she was 16, can change a carburetor faster than most guys twice her size. He tells her about the moose that gave him the scar on his cheek, about the time he got stuck in a blizzard on the Continental Divide for 18 hours, and she listens, no interrupting, no polite fake laughs, just nods like she actually cares what he has to say. He can smell lavender mixed with the sweat from the summer heat on her skin, hear the distant sound of kids yelling and a country song playing on someone’s Bluetooth speaker, and for a second he forgets all the garbage Jake told him, forgets the promise he made to himself to never let anyone get close again, until she mentions Jake’s name offhand.
“He’s been telling everyone I left him for a ski bum, right?” she says, and when he nods, she snorts, leaning back on her hands, her shoulder pressing fully against his now, warm and solid through his thin cotton t-shirt. “That ‘ski bum’ is my apprentice at the pottery studio. He’s 26, gay, and I pay him 18 bucks an hour to help me teach kids how to throw mugs. Jake was just mad I left him after he spent our entire retirement savings on golf trips and strippers. He can’t stand that I’m happy without him.”
Clay feels his face heat up, embarrassment coiling tight in his gut, because he’d bought the lie hook, line, and sinker, had written her off as some kind of predatory joke before he even said two words to her. “I’m an idiot,” he says, quiet, and she laughs, bumping her shoulder against his. “You’re not an idiot. You’re the only guy on this block who didn’t either leer at my chest when I walked by or cross the street to avoid me. Figured you were either a saint or terrified of women.”
Lila comes barrelling around the corner of the house then, plastic bag with a goldfish bobbing in a bowl held over her head, yelling that she won first place at the ring toss. She skids to a stop in front of the porch, grinning so wide her dimples show, and tugs on Clay’s wrist to pull him over to show the goldfish to the other kids. Clay stands up, brushes the crumbs off his jeans, and looks down at Maren, still sitting on the step, sun catching the gold hoop earring in her left ear. “I got a full set of wrenches in the garage,” he says, before he can overthink it. “We could knock out that rust spot on the truck bed next Saturday, if you want. I’ll buy the beer.”
She grins, tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and nods. “I’ll bring the cobbler. Extra cinnamon.”
Clay follows Lila across the lawn, the goldfish bowl sloshing a little in her hand, and he can feel Maren’s eyes on his back the whole way, a small, stupid smile tugging at the corner of his mouth that he can’t wipe off even if he tries.
